


Under Wraps

by deklava



Series: The Man Who Beat Sherlock [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage and Discipline, Immobility, M/M, Mummification, Riding Crops, Safe Sane and Consensual, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deklava/pseuds/deklava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i></i>
</p>
<p>“Patience,” Ian chides. When his nails graze the flaming skin he has just punished, Sherlock whimpers and goes still. “You were already the recipient of a rather vigorous fucking tonight. I have no intention of spoiling you any more than I already have. No, I believe tonight will be about my pleasure too.”</p>
<p>A pause as an idea takes hold. A glorious and unprecedented idea. As he closes the zip over Sherlock’s arse and flips the detective back into a supine position, he wonders why they haven’t tried it before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Wraps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youcantsaymylastname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcantsaymylastname/gifts), [chasingriver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingriver/gifts).



> **Beta:** chasingriver, who inspired this fic :)

“Ready?” Ian whispers.

“Yes, Sir.” Sherlock shifts in the roomy canvas body bag, which covers him up to the chin. Thick leather belts wind across its surface, immobilising his limbs. Each time he moves, the leather sling beneath him sways gently.

“Close your eyes then.”

When he obeys, Ian picks up the leather hood and rolls it slowly over the other man’s head. It covers Sherlock’s eyes but has nose holes and a section that can be detached whenever his mouth is needed. Ian kisses those soft lips before shutting them away, leaving Sherlock literally floating in darkness.

He understands Sherlock’s love of these tight, dark worlds they create together. Away from Ian, Sherlock Holmes regularly courts disaster with his arrogance, sharp tongue, and poor impulse control. Here, he’s protected from himself by rules and restraints, and he knows it. He feels so safe that he once admitted, “I only really sleep when I’m here.”

He’s not sleeping now, though. Ian is exposing him to something new, and where Sherlock is concerned, there’s no rest for the excited.

******

Tonight’s dinner conversation had led to this moment.  During dessert, Sherlock had asked Ian about wrapping, mummification, and other forms of immobility bondage. He and John Watson had just solved a case involving a man who loved being wrapped head to toe in cling-film, and he said he wanted to understand its appeal. Ian suspected that what Sherlock really wanted to know was why the concept appealed to _him_.

“In my experience,” Ian answered, “there are a variety of reasons. A strong person can crave the novelty of being rendered helpless. Those with guilty feelings about sex relish the fiction that all those orgasms are ‘against their will’, as they’re unable to physically resist. I’ve even had clients who tell me that the ropes, straps, or cling-film feel like a lover’s embrace, leaving them secure and comforted.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, his curiosity evident. Then he licked his lower lip, something he habitually did when turned on, and shifted in the high-backed chair. Ian pushed his creme brulee aside, stood, and fingered the collar that the detective was now required to wear in Ian’s house.

“Upstairs,” was all the Man had to say.

Now here they were.

Ian rocks Sherlock slowly, letting him enjoy the feeling of being completely helpless. Then he slowly turns him onto his stomach and reaches for the zip concealing that smooth arse from view. The body bag has several such zips, all designed to expose whatever part of its occupant a Dom might want to lavish with devious attention.

Right now, Ian wants to play with Sherlock’s arse.

The moment those firm buttocks are exposed to the dim light, Ian massages them roughly. He teases Sherlock -and himself- by spreading them wide and blowing lightly on the puckered hole, which is still a little red and sensitive from their earlier fucking.

It’s about to get more sensitive, the Man thinks as he lowers his head.

The first brush of Ian’s tongue seems to take Sherlock by surprise, even though the groping and blowing should have clued him in to what was coming. He sucks in his breath behind the hood and squirms, sighing as his cock slides between his naked belly and the bag’s canvas interior.

Digging his fingers in deep, deliberately trying to bruise, Ian runs the tip of his tongue along Sherlock’s cleft. When he applies only the lightest of pressure to the dusky pink hole before continuing upward, Sherlock struggles in his bindings.

“Ohhh, Ian, please.” The hood muffles his voice, but the words are still discernable.

Ian pauses. “Aren’t we forgetting something, pet?”

Silence. Then Sherlock slumps.

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are. But you forgot your place, and your infraction must be punished.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Grinning in lecherous anticipation, Ian slides off his suit jacket and lays it across a chair. Then he rolls up his shirtsleeves and takes his black leather gloves out of his waistcoat pocket.

“I think you’re long overdue for a cropping.”

He trails his fingers across Sherlock’s buttocks, smile widening as tremors ripple across the smooth skin.

“I love watching your arse go from cool and white to hot and red.”

Sherlock’s back arches as Ian slides one gloved finger lazily between his cheeks, spreading the saliva from the all-too-brief rimming.

“You love it too, don’t you, you greedy boy?”

Before Sherlock can answer, Ian removes the leather glove and sinks two fingers into his hole. The sudden penetration elicits a choked gasp and exclamation of “Yes, Sir, yes, I do love it.”

“You’re still so slick inside, even though I fucked you just before dinner.” Ian’s cool voice belies the growing bulge in his suit trousers. “You’re also squirming like a Soho rent boy. Once is never enough for you, is it?”

Sherlock shakes his head and moans as Ian continues to finger-fuck him.

“I asked you a question.”

“No, Sir. Once is never enough.”

“You’re drifting, Sherlock.” Ian withdraws and smacks his arse. “You know better than that.”

He turns and takes a crop off the implement-covered wall. For five long, hellish minutes he stands there, striking the crop’s flat tip against his palm and relishing the way Sherlock shifts around in fear as well as anticipation. Then he lashes out in one swift movement, leaving a pink stripe across the other man’s right buttock. Sherlock barely has time to cry out before Ian marks his left cheek with the same merciless accuracy.

“Oooh!”

“Twenty more, and you will thank me for each one.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Ian settles into a rhythm that’s almost soothing in its consistency. The crack of leather on Sherlock’s darkening arse is shrill and loud, each blow underscored by a throaty “Thank you, Sir.” After the final strike, Ian tosses the crop onto a side table and runs a palm over his masterpiece.

“Beautiful,” he whispers as he surveys the hot, mottled flesh. “You beautiful, _impossible_ man.”

Sherlock betrays his arousal when he tries to spread his thighs, but the leather belts keep him restrained.

“Patience,” Ian chides. When his nails graze the flaming skin he has just punished, Sherlock whimpers and goes still. “You were already the recipient of a rather vigorous fucking tonight. I have no intention of spoiling you any more than I already have. No, I believe tonight will be about my pleasure too.”

A pause as an idea takes hold. A glorious and _unprecedented_ idea. As he closes the zip over Sherlock’s arse and flips the detective back into a supine position, he wonders why they haven’t tried it before.

_Probably because I would have seen it as impossible. Not any more._

_Thank you, Mira._

Sherlock cocks his head as Ian undoes his belt and lets it fall noisily to the floor, the steel buckle clanging against the polished stone. When the whisper of discarded trousers and pants follows, the detective raises his shoulders a few inches and listens more intently. He’s clearly trying to figure out what’s happening next, and if the sizeable tenting over his crotch is any indication, the suspense excites him.

Naked from the waist down, Ian strokes his own erection, revelling in the feel of the butter-soft leather glove against his wet flesh.

“You’re dying of curiosity, aren’t you, Sherlock? Trust me, you will never guess what I have planned for you. And even after it happens, you will have trouble believing it.”

He reluctantly releases his cock and removes his gloves, tossing them onto Sherlock’s chest. The detective grunts in surprise and automatically looks down, even though he can’t see. Ian laughs at the futile reaction and takes a travel-sized bottle of lube out of his waistcoat pocket.

“Perhaps because I can barely believe it myself,” he adds.

After slicking up the first two fingers of his left hand, Ian bends over the toy-littered side table. His cock brushes against the polished wood, igniting a spark of pleasure that bursts into flame when he penetrates himself to the third knuckle.

“Fuck yes,” he moans when he grazes his prostate.

_That_ nearly drives Sherlock mad with curiosity. The detective goes completely still and tilts his head even more, eager for additional ‘data’. Determined to keep Sherlock in the figurative dark, Ian gags himself with the leather-wrapped crop handle before scissoring his fingers. It hurts at first: he knows he should go more slowly, but his need is nearly surpassing Sherlock’s at this point.

_The heights that you and I drive each other to...._

When he’s open enough to do what he has in mind without risking injury, Ian stands up straight, holding on to the table edge until his legs are steadier. Then he picks up the lube and approaches the sling, his aching prick pointing the way. He’s amazed at how much he wants this.

“Novelty is the real spice of life,” he says as he opens the crotch zipper. Sherlock’s penis immediately points toward the ceiling, its tip red and wet. “It keeps us from getting bored. And boredom is toxic to us, isn’t it?”

When his lube-slick fingers close around Sherlock’s prick and start stroking, the detective bucks in the restraints and whimpers, “Yes, Sir.”

Ian can’t draw this out any longer. After releasing his lover’s erection and wiping his hands on a flannel, he grasps two of the chains that hold the sling up. With one smooth, catlike movement, he leaps up and onto Sherlock, who cries out in surprise.

“Then let us enjoy this antidote,” he says huskily as he kneels astride the other man, the rocking sling making every move tremulous. Gripping Sherlock’s cock at the base, he positions it against his entrance and lowers himself slowly, relishing the endorphin rush that follows the pain of initial penetration. Digging his nails into the canvas over Sherlock’s nipples, he sinks until there’s no more to take.

Sherlock expels his breath in one noisy hiss and blindly thrusts upward, overwhelmed by the slick and tight heat now encasing him. Shuddering as a burning euphoria takes hold, Ian angles his hips so that the thick crown of Sherlock’s penis glides repeatedly across his prostate. The pleasure is so intense that he bites his lip and grabs the overhead chains for support, making the sling rock in a wide arc.

The continuous motion feels _amazing_ \- like they’ve taken flight together. Ian begins to ride Sherlock mercilessly, causing the leather and chains to creak in unison. Inspired, he pulls the mouth covering away from the hood and kisses those now-exposed lips with such hunger that bruises later form. To his surprise and delight, Sherlock returns the kiss, exploring Ian’s mouth with a rare aggression. Ian can feel the electricity rising between them, generated by passion and their adventurous sexuality taken to new heights.

“I’m _inside_ you,” the detective breathes when their lips part. He’s so stunned and exhilarated by this plunge into the unprecedented that deduction-babble begins. “No condom because we’re both clean... silicone-based lubricant... low level of anal elasticity suggests that it’s been at least three weeks since you-”

Ian shoves a hand roughly over his mouth.  

“No, _I_ will tell _you_ what’s happening, Sherlock. You are being allowed to pleasure me with your cock, a privilege I’ve never granted to any of my other pets. I expect you to do it well. And if you come before I do....”

His voice trails off, inviting Sherlock to imagine the worst. The detective nods jerkily and arches his back, trying to thrust deeper. Ian releases his mouth and plants both hands on his chest for better balance.

“Harder,” the Man growls. Even though he’s the one being penetrated, Ian’s dominant nature drives him to direct the encounter. He may be surrendering his body right now but not his position of control.

Sherlock’s movements become more frantic, sending the sling into an airborne frenzy. Ian’s breath stutters at the deliciously erratic assault on his prostate. Blindly grabbing his cock, he begins to wank, wrist moving at lightspeed and sweat flying off his face.

He doesn’t last long- no one can, with that level of pleasure overload. A few slick glides of his forefinger over the sweet spot beneath his cock head are all he manages to accomplish before he comes all over Sherlock’s leather-covered face. Most of it ends up on the detective’s lips and tongue, where it is greedily consumed.

“P-please.” Sherlock is so desperate that a milky drool trickles down his chin. “M-may I come now?”

“Yes!” Ian hisses. He crouches down and covers Sherlock’s sperm-glossed mouth in a breath-stealing kiss. While their tongues and bodies collide, Ian deliberately tightens around his lover.

“Come in me, Sherlock. Good boy... yes....you’ve earned this reward.”

Sherlock twists in his bindings and raises his hips so high off the sling that Ian nearly tumbles sideways. Then the Man feels semen, warm and thick, gush into his body. Their bodies are so tightly connected that none escapes, but Ian suspects that once he climbs off, several flannels will be needed. The thought makes him feel filthy and powerful at the same time.

It takes awhile for them to come down from the celestial high they have attained together, but finally the chains go silent, the swing slows to a gentle rocking, and their groans soften to quiet sighs. Ian sits up, still breathing heavily, and pulls Sherlock’s hood off. The other man blinks as his eyes adjust to the dim light.

“Alright?” Ian asks, touching his cheek. Sherlock’s skin is warm to the touch, and his hair presses damply against his skull.

“Yes.” Sherlock swallows. “I- that was- you-”

He’s still trying to process everything. Ian touches his lips.

“Shh. Just rest. I’m going to call Allan to bring flannels and water, and then we can take a bath-”

“No!”

That response is so unexpected that Ian is both startled and concerned. “Sherlock?”

“Please.” The detective’s eyes are bright and pleading. “I- I’d like to stay like this a while longer. Wrapped up, and you on top of me. I find it rather comforting.”

Ian can’t speak at first. Affection now floods him with the same intensity that Sherlock’s orgasm had only minutes before. “Of course,” he murmurs, carefully lowering his upper body until they are chest to chest. Gathering his lover close, he adds,“We can stay as long as you like.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, for he is already asleep.


End file.
